


In The Cold Light Of Morning

by winterwonderland



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwonderland/pseuds/winterwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron is searching for the right words to say. Missing scenes from episodes 7 and 8 (WotD).</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Cold Light Of Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place right before ‘At the Crossroads’ and briefly during.
> 
> Warning for unresolved angst and feelings and one sex scene.
> 
> (And the title is not actually supposed to be from the Placebo song of the same name.)

 

Agron lies still in the dark, listening equally to the winds outside and the heavily drawn breaths not far from his ear. The palm’s distance between them stretches ocean-wide, yet Agron never moves. Not closer, not further away. Then finally, after an eternity, he forces his eyes to close, forces his fists to unclench at his sides, even though it stands all too clear that there is no rest left for him to chase this night. And then it is already morning.

The day breaks too dark, too cold, too soon. And the light of day – as grey as it may be – sets hands to task, turns feet once more on separate paths along snowy mountain ridge.

When Agron next sets eyes upon Nasir’s form, the sight of him offers not even the shallow comfort of the night before: huddled under icy rock, sharing friendlier words with Cilician than has ever been custom between captor and captive. Agron sees the effortless smile, far too long absent from beloved face, and the familiar anger flares within chest, burning bright, ready to consume all upon its path yet again.

But as their eyes lock across the snowy ground, and Agron watches the smile upon Syrian lips quickly fading along with the light in his eyes, the fire within withers away, leaving behind little more than a pile of ashes and a tower of smoke reaching the greying sky.

There was a time – not that long ago even – when he yet stupidly thought he could have it all: Nasir in his arms and Rome burning down to ruin beneath his very feet. Nothing but a grin splitting lover’s face from daybreak to dusk, hazel eyes trained on Agron’s own as they but marched from victory to victory, closer and closer towards that glorious day when the last drop of Roman blood would spill upon sands already swimming in crimson, and the heavens would split, raining down copper and gold in final celebration.

But that was before. Before Sinuessa, before Crassus and the crushing might of his fucking coin. Before the sharp blade of reality punctured gaping wound into foolish fantasy, leaving it to slowly bleed to its death upon cold ground. And now Agron is close – too close – to losing it all. The war and his heart. Not to shit-stained smile of a pirate, but to snapping jaws of Rome waiting just beyond eye’s reach, ready to swallow them all whole.

The coldness quickly setting in his bones is soon to rival even the icy force of the growing winds around him. And that is when he suddenly hears someone call his name, hears hurried steps approaching, and then the chilling shadow of tomorrow yet to come is forcibly pushed from thought as more pressing concerns of present day fill both hands and mind.

 

* * * * *

 

He eases the cloak off his shoulder, hissing in pain as he rubs the skin, only half-surprised to find his hand covered in blood when he draws it away. The coat drops on the makeshift bed, and the cold air finds the last hidden spots of warm flesh upon him, making him shiver even before he dips a cloth in melting snow and lifts it over bloodied skin.

The flap of the tent is drawn back behind him, and a whirl of icy wind travels around the crammed space, from wall to wall, corner to corner, sending flakes of snow flying in the air.

“You suffer wound?”

“But a scratch,” he answers dully, never turning around, wringing the wet cloth against his skin and watching trickles of dark red turn light pink as the rivulets run down his arm, turning to heavy droplets that spread color upon snow-covered ground.

Soft footsteps close the short distance between them, and soon Agron finds the rag taken from hand. He offers no protest, if not words of encouragement either.

“Sit, I would have better reach.”

He complies and watches with feigned disinterest as Nasir takes up the task, working with precision while silence once more falls between them. Agron was right before, it is only a shallow gash upon flesh, easily cleaned, and it takes the other man not long before he has already finished.

“Is it true?” he asks then, with only the slightest tremor in his voice, “What they say of Donar?”

The memory is quick, flashing in his mind for a heartbeat and then gone again.

“Yes.”

There are other words ready upon tongue, strings of curses and vows of returning bitter favor, but he says nothing more. For it is not the loss of a friend that weighs heaviest upon his heart this night; the man’s fate a dark truth to learn yet hardly unsuspected news after failed return from within wretched city walls. And Agron has long since given up faith in miracles of resurrection.

No, it is far more than Donar’s end that Agron saw within that Roman tent this day, the visions flashing before his eyes even more gruesome than letters carved in the flesh of a friend long from this world. He saw _the_ end. The unescapable end. Legions upon legions of soldiers descending upon them, marching in formation to the wail of war-horns, waves of steel and ballista crashing to shore in endless succession.

And perhaps it should have been fire coursing through his veins then, at the promise of such battle, yet it was not so. All he felt was an unearthly coldness freezing him from within as he watched the apparitions dancing before him. And then...

Sword slicing through familiar flesh, knees hitting ground, eyes growing wide and unseeing, blood spilling from once treasured lips...

Agron blinks when his eyes set upon the very same form, yet alive and whole and breathing before him, and a shuddered sigh escapes his lips without giving him even the smallest chance to hold it in.

Long fingers fan wide over armor, then move to patch of bare skin upon neck.

“Such news weighs upon mind.”

The brush of thumb is but a fleeting touch yet offers more comfort than Agron had thought he would ever be able to hold again. And he closes his eyes briefly as he leans into the touch, and then cannot fight the pull of the face before him, following the trail of hot breath ghosting upon his skin.

He reaches out a hand to cup ice-cold cheek, presses mouth gently upon mouth in a gesture so familiar it is ingrained into every fiber of his being. His fingers drag along stubbly jaw, tongue traces line between lips, waiting for invitation yet to be granted.

But the lips against his own part not in desire but only in a gasp of air. And then the other man already takes a staggering backwards step, stumbling on his feet to get away from reach.

And for the briefest of moments there is an apology ready to leave Agron’s lips when he looks up to downcast eyes, but he forces it down in one swift swallow. He is not a man of apologies; and even more than that, it would feel wrong and out of place to now utter appeasing words over liberties taken, as if they were but two strangers passing in the night and not lovers of seasons upon seasons past.

So, instead he only gains feet again, shrugging on his cloak, and turns to the doorway.

“I better find Sp–”

The hand grasping his arm stills tongue and feet. Brow furrows and Agron looks over his shoulder, but has no time to form question or query when the other man has already stepped closer, his cloak covered body quickly molding into the folds and bends of Agron’s own. And the hand gripping his arm moves to grip his neck instead; blunt nails forcing him to lean down, as Nasir’s mouth surges up to meet his with force that has Agron grab hold of padded waist and hip to keep them both from toppling over.

It is only lungs screaming for fresh air that has them finally peel lips away from lips; if yet only a hair’s width worth, only the least distance required to draw in needed breath. There is no wish to be parted again after having already been parted for too long.

“I had feared tender touch was forever lost between us,” Nasir breathes out, his voice nearly lost in Agron’s skin.

And Agron does not have the words, so he cradles chin in hand and lifts dark eyes to his; his own stare unwavering until the hazel turns into liquid, until lids flutter shut, until lips part and head tilts back to offer more opportune angle for wandering tongue. And Nasir never moves from his place within Agron’s arms, his chilled hands only seeking further purchase in gaps of bare flesh between armor and coat.

A howling gust of wind outside rustles the cover of the tent; the candles flicker, and Agron ungracefully stumbles down on the pallet, drawing the smaller man in his wake. His touches are grappling and his kisses desperate, still expecting newfound task or threat of Roman sword to interrupt their coupling at any given moment. The gods, he knows, would only all too eagerly be so cruel.

But the night only grows darker and colder around them, with no other use for Agron’s arms than to shield lover’s body from flesh-freezing chill that lurks beyond the scraps of covers he now attempts to wrap tighter around them.

And this is neither time nor place for worship of bare skin, for drawn out teasing or lingering touches. Mouths barely move from one another, only sharing heat and shelter, and hands slip under cloth and leather instead of ripping such things out of way. But the need within is stronger than fear of winter’ might and they do their best, plow on, despite unfavorable circumstances.

The oil is thick as wax on Agron’s fingers, and Nasir hisses, body arching away from the cold. But soon enough hisses turn to whimpers; and desperate hands claw against Agron’s armor, grasp leather straps for leverage, as the man and his body change direction and at last push back against Agron’s persisting touch.

And then, amidst the curses and moans, the man cries out Agron’s name, with a voice that is hoarse and strained and yet too loud somehow. And part of Agron thinks of covering mouth to keep such noises from prying ears – this moment is for them and them alone. Yet another part – the winning part – only wishes for the cries to be louder, for the whole fucking world to hear. And so he keeps moving, hands and mouth, until he gets his wish, until the form trapped between pallet and flesh finally goes limp and falls heavily down on the ground below as if a cloth wrung dry.

Spit and seed is yet warm in his hand, warmer than oil-turned-wax at any rate, and then Agron is already pushing back inside, gliding fraction by fraction into flesh too long absent his touch. Nails sink into his skin, and it is more than two fingers worth, Agron knows, so he takes his time.

The surrounding heat is a strange oasis in the cold, thawing more than just his ice-cold flesh. It is a safe place amidst the peril and pain that is his life; his name etched into its walls since the first time, left there in the hope that if he ever had to leave, he would always be able to find his way back again. Though, by now the path is so familiar he would know the way with blind eyes.

And the peace that he has such trouble achieving out in the world is suddenly there – here – where it has always been. And Agron knows that if only he could, he would never leave, never leave _this_.

If only he could. But somewhere in a distant valley the morning bird is already on the wing.

Neck arches over crumpled sheet and teeth latch onto vulnerable spot of skin under chin. Hands grip thighs, thumbs skim tender flesh. Hips find new relentless rhythm.

“Agron...I cannot...”

The noise that next escapes Nasir’s throat is a groan of both pleasure and pain, and Agron stills as the sound thrums against his lips.

“You would have me stop?”

“You fucking stop, and I will have your head.”

 

* * * * *

 

“What? You would give him sword? Do we not face enough threat from fucking Romans to be arming enemy within camp as well?”

“He stands not as enemy but as a man willing to join our cause.”

“Is that so?” Bitterness seeps into every syllable, coating his tongue and filling every gap between teeth, and he has to pause a moment to gain bearings again. “And what convinces mind?”

Chin lifts and jaw sets stubbornly to a rigid line and Agron bites back a sigh.

“You forget, he already raised sword against Romans and did so to save my life.”

More for the benefit of cock than cause, Agron thinks grimly yet says nothing, raising his cup back to his lips instead and ignoring the pleading look now growing behind the other man’s eyes.

“Agron...”

“You cannot expect me to merely trust him at his fucking word, Nasir.”

“No. I expect you to trust me at mine.”

Their stare holds for one endless heartbeat, until Agron finally parts his lips to offer the awaited words he has been left searching for too long.

“Agron!”

And the moment is gone from his grasp yet again, disappearing into the air like the twirl of smoke from the fire before them, and they both turn from each other and from the warmth of the flames at the sound of Gannicus’ voice. It is filled with urgency so rarely heard from the Celt’s mouth that it alone is enough to force feet to action.

“Medicus’ tent is down and the fucking wind but blows with more force. We must find Spartacus now!”

 

* * * * *

 

That awaited answer that was lost to him before; Agron does find it again, eventually. Yet he does not find it hands burdened with task and struggle upon snow covered rock and field. He does not find it when he crouches down to cut the ties around Cilician’s wrist, nor when wading amidst the dead and the dying in bone-freezing cold. He does not find it standing upon conquered wall, as Roman backs retreat in temporary defeat and fellow rebels burst into untimely celebration all around him.

No. He finds it under the pale moon light, upon the stone steps of a Roman house just as he did once before – once upon a night a lifetime ago. And what irony it is, he thinks, to fucking find it here at last only to lose it again.

To find himself standing in another entryway as the night falls and the north wind begins to blow and say, “This time we both go. Our separate ways.”

Yet where the first one was a bittersweet parting; soft lips pressing against his own in a promise of something beginning, lending hope to heart’s return against all odds and giving cause to dream the impossible; tonight’s goodbye is of a different kind.

For tonight there is no promise of return, no hope for reunion in even the most distant days, only harsh words rolling off his tongue ever so sweetly like honey, and lover’s gaze, wet with unshed tears, glistening in torchlight. And tonight, when Agron’s lips press softly against Nasir’s own, it is not the beginning that is sealed with such kiss, but the end.

“I ask only that you live.”

It is the only thing of worth he has ever wished to say.


End file.
